


Parting is Such Sweet Sorrow

by UselessLesbianLaughter



Category: Supergirl (TV 2015)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Romance, Angst and Tragedy, Bittersweet, Character Death, Death, F/F, Heavy Angst, Historical AU, How many different ways can I tag angst, POV First Person, Royalty, Sad Ending, Suffering, SuperCorp, Well - Freeform, implied soulmates, like 95 percent bitter and 5 percent sweet, royal au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-25
Updated: 2020-02-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:33:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22901020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UselessLesbianLaughter/pseuds/UselessLesbianLaughter
Summary: Lena of the Luthor dynasty is the sole heir to the throne of England. This is the story, in two parts, leading up to and following her beheading, told from the perspective of Cara, her Lady-in-Waiting, whom she is madly, madly in love with. A tale as old as time, a pair of star-cross'd lovers, you know how fire suppressed burns all the fiercer. These violent delights have violent ends.Set around the 18th century, loosely, this is not meant to be the pinnacle of historical accuracy.
Relationships: Kara Danvers/Lena Luthor
Comments: 4
Kudos: 21





	Parting is Such Sweet Sorrow

**Author's Note:**

> Cruelty, thy name is Lena! Everyone must be exhausted from the weekly angst canon keeps delivering, so what would my readers like more than more angst, but somehow worse, but hey, it's written very pompously, sounding somehow, at once, victorian and shakespearean.

My name is Caroline D’Anvers but I am addressed as Cara in the court. I was born in France to a noble family, my mother of royal descent and my father a revered physician. News of his excellence travelled as far as the English court where he was in high demand with the King. I remember little of my childhood, though I recall my parents as kind and my home as a charming one, in the east of Paris, in the heart of the Marais district, overlooking the Seine. In the early mornings, midst the soft pink and violet hues, I felt my window overlooked the whole city.

Father travelled often and, at times, took me with. I saw much of the world before I became thirteen years of age. Then, my world crumbled overnight. There was a terrible fire and both of my parents perished, only I made it out alive. From that point on I became an orphan and I cannot tell you what would’ve come of me hath the King not learned of my fate and taken pity on me. On his accord, I travelled to England and there I stayed, as a servant in the royal court.

The King hath a daughter two years my senior. Her name was Lena, of the Luthor dynasty, and she was to become Queen after her father’s passing as she was the sole heir. Hope of a male heir diminished when Lena’s mother died when she was quite young and the King, heartbroken, refused to remarry.

I remember vividly the first time we met. I was brought to her chamber upon her request by one of her Ladies-in-Waiting, to make my introduction, so I was told. It was the coldest day of winter and she was sat by the fireplace. I curtseyed and greeted her as “Your Royal Highness, Ma’am,” but my voice was trembling just as much as my knees and the whole time, I feared tripping.

“Lady Caroline D’Anvers of France, I believe?” she did not wait for a reply, “Very well. You shall be taking over for my last girl, Lady Anne Spencer, who succumbed to the scarlatina, but I’m sure Lady Stafford has already explained that to you,” she hath not, in fact, I hath only learned of my duties coming forth. She continued, “I hope you are well-versed in what is expected of you. Then, we shall get along very well.”

The fire flickered on her face. I thought her very handsome.

She was kinder to me, I believe, than she was supposed to be yet still cold. I thought her lonesome, though she hath all kinds of people coming through her chambers every day. Seamstresses, hairdressers, cooks, people of every nameable craft. As her maid, I was summoned each morning when Her Royal Highness needed her breakfast served, her bed made and her chambers tidied. Each morning, I was to replace the melted candles with new ones and, in spring and summer, the flowers in the vases by the window with fresh ones.

It didn’t take me long to learn the ways of the house and, soon enough, I fancied myself something of an expert on the heir herself. I learned she fancied silence in the mornings and knew each creaking floorboard to avoid, and to speak in a soft voice when I was spoken to. I learned her characteristics down to the very details of her appearance. She was rather tall of stature however shorter than me. Her eyes were an extremely pale shade of green, and her hair fell in sleek dark tresses but I only saw it worn down in the mornings. By noon, she’d hath it done up as was the fashion. I think I will remember the lines of her face, the curve of her sincere smiles, until the very day I die.

She developed an affinity for me, I suppose, for I rose quickly in my rankings. At the time I was her Maid of Honour, I barely spoke English, thus she assigned to me a tutor, though, I should say, she herself spoke excellent French. Once she considered my education proficient, she granted me the title of Lady-in-Waiting, though I was young and unwed. My duties changed but continued to be many, most prominently transcribing correspondence for her and reading the letters she received, dressing and bathing her and, of course, accompanying her wherever she should go.

She is the one who gave me the name Cara. She told me it meant “friend” in Irish. I never told anyone my full name again. I must’ve been no more than sixteen years of age then.

She liked to have me read to her and we could pass hours that way. In time, the rest of her Ladies-in-Waiting, whom there were four of, seemed to fade into obscurity, only summoned for public appearances or when she needed something fetched, served or summoned. She would ask to be brought her breakfast and tea and once they were served, she’d exile everyone else from her bedchambers, thrust a neatly-bound book into my hands and ask me to read to her as she took her breakfast. She liked to lean her head on my shoulder as I read, I thought, perhaps to get a better look at the pages, and she was never stingy with her meals, always offering me a taste. To this day, I remember the smell of strong coffee wafting through the bedchambers and the sweet taste of crumbling bisket-bread. When I close my eyes, I swear, I can hear my own voice reciting _Much Ado About Nothing_ or _Romeo and Juliet_ as her pale green eyes flicker in the morning light, her skin soft on mine as she dozes on my shoulder.

She was the only child in the court, the sole heir to the throne, so she was cherished, her safety under constant scrutiny. That was until her nineteenth year. Lena was to be married soon and, were her fate the one of most women in royal courts, her betrothed would have been chosen for her, but it wasn’t. The King held a strong belief that she was capable of making a wise choice in selecting a husband, who was to be King of England following his passing. It was her father’s kindness, in the end, that became her final undoing. Suitor after suitor was presented to her and she turned them all down. As the court was beginning to turn against her, surprise took it by storm.

A man by the name of Alexander Fitzroy turned up, claiming to be the rightful heir to the throne of England as the illegitimate child of the King, born before his marriage to the late Queen. He was a decade senior to Lena. After long debating in the court, he was legitimized without a public spectacle as that truly seemed to be all he craved. These were volatile times and avoiding scandal was of utmost importance. Perhaps, hath Lena not been the sole heir, a lady and unmarried, perhaps the decision would not have come to pass.

He all but disappeared after that. Life continued on as regular for many years after the incident, and Lena was never wed. 

Day after day, I came to her chambers and she chose a book for me to read. She gave me presents, fabrics– velvet, brocade, satin and taffeta from Turkey, jewellery– penchants with chains of gold, brooches and rings, made with rubies and sapphires from India, by some of the finest craftsmen in Spain and Portugal. At times, I thought, feared, even, she’d give me anything if so my heart desired. I kept most in drawers, hidden away, for I feared they might attract jealousy, but there was a brooch I always wore as close to my heart as I could. When Lena gifted it to me, she clipped it to my chest herself. It depicted a pair of birds of gold, beaks touching, such as lovers do, decorated with pearls, emeralds and rubies. The words upon it read, 'Love is Comfort'. Oh, I’m wearing it today! Just as I did then.

It took eleven years for the tide to turn, just as long as it took the King to die. On the night of his death, the palace announced to the public ‘The King’s life is moving peacefully towards its close.’ Oh, it was anything but peaceful! But to a close, it came.

A black-edged notice was pinned to the palace gates and all the flags across the country flew half-mast. I’d never seen the world go so quiet. Worst of all, though, was Lena.

It hurt my heart to see Lena so taken by grief, the misery spared her no mercy. The twelve days of mourning passed and the King was laid to rest but we couldn’t tempt her out of her black mourning garments for weeks after, no matter what we tried. I should’ve liked to weep for her but now I hath to be brave for my Queen.

I still though Lena the rightful heir, then, for Lex, as we came to call him, was a bastard, after all. And at first, it seemed I was right in my assumptions.

Preparations for her coronation hath begun without my knowledge long before the King’s passing. She was, still, without a husband, and the country should be left without a King, and that worried the court as it did the country but we hath little time to worry amid the preparations, in full swing as they were. The event was due for months after the funeral rites, still, every day left us in a hurry.

At last, the day came. I saw her walk into Westminster Abbey, draped in the crimson surcoat, four men carrying the Robe of State behind her, equally crimson, as though stained with blood. I saw, with my very eyes, her take the oath. To this day, it’s ringing in my ears, the archbishop’s voice echoing ‘Will you promise and Sweare to Governe the People of this Kingdome of England and the Dominions thereto belonging according to the Statutes in Parlyament Agreed on and the Laws and Customs of the same?” Then, I hear her voice, so steady, so certain, it says “I solemnly promise so to do. All this I promise to do. The things which I have here before promised, I will perform, and keep. So help me God.”

I saw the crown placed on her head and thought not of a single man on Earth more deserving of it. It was a religious experience if I’ve ever hath one. As she rose to stand, she turned her head. It was only a moment but her eyes caught mine. A ghost of a smile danced on her lips, it would be the only time she’d smile that day.

My eyes dart across the room in search of hers. They look different now. Darkened, and she won’t look at me the way she used to. Her eyes no longer marvel nor glitter, it seems she sees right through me.

The first year, all was fine. If only I hath known what was to come. Would it have made a difference?

Her Majesty the Queen, Lena Luthor, was born to rule. She was young, of course, and still hath much to learn, but she was wise beyond her years. The nation thrived and I rejoiced in her successes. She hath little time for me now, much less than before. I went long days without catching as much as a glimpse of her, but I took comfort in seeing her rise each morning and slumber each night. My own room, in the ladies’ quarters, grew quite unused.

There were nights she came to her bedchambers late with sunken, tired eyes. I’d unlace her corset and her eyes would flood with relief. She’d take my hand and kiss my knuckles and say I was the best friend to her in the whole wide world, then collapse into a deep slumber. I watched her sleep, the rising and falling of her chest, the tiny twitches every once in a while, a furrowed brow, how I wished I could take the pain from her, but in the end I was a mere maid, the orphan girl favoured by the Queen, loathed by the court, and all I knew how to do was place her frocks and gowns neatly, blow out the candles, keep her warm as she slept in the frost of winter.

But as the year drew to an end, tensions sparked. The Queen remained without a King, and in her ninth and twentieth year, the people grew worried for the lack of an heir. We pleaded her to find a beau, it wasn’t as though suitors were scarce. To solidify the alliance between England and Portugal, the king of Portugal wished his eldest son be wed to Lena but she refused. There were some who supported her decision, firm in the belief that it was one of patriotism, for the sake of protecting England from foreign influence, still, the people were turning against her. She was dubbed the Spinster Queen. Merry children would chant mocking rhymes about her in the streets.

She paid them no mind. The nation’s hearts would turn, she’d say, seeing her as a capable leader. I cannot tell you, hath she known then what I know now, if things would have been any different.

All that took place travelled to me by word of mouth, things I overheard in the court. Each day I grew further from the kingdom, only closer to the Queen. Should the whole world turn against her, I thought, here I’d remain.

Then he came, I should say, the Devil himself incarnate! He hath wed, his wife was now with child, the legitimate child of the fallen King, to a kingdom desperate for an heir, how devilish his plot, how simple. He needed nothing but to rile the people up against their Queen, a whisper sent hither, a falsehood thither. As easy as falling off a log, the flame was alight before he arrived, he only encouraged it to spread.

Lena grew angry as world travelled of his betrayal. I saw her throw a beaker of glass and gold against a wall and watch it shatter. I don’t believe I’d ever seen such anger in her eyes before that day, I don’t think any anger at all. For this, I thought, the treasonous bastard should hang!

But she did not think so. He was her brother, after all, and she refused to resort to murder. Still, she was convinced she’d win back the kingdom’s favour, still, I believed she would.

I have little memory of this time. I know they stormed the castle on the 22nd of February. I know they captured the Queen, I know people spoke for days afterwards of how her lady’s crying prayers hath been heard to the other side of the Thames. I know their words mattered nothing to me.

I should have wrapped my hands around their wily throats when I hath the chance, the chance to save her.

She refused to abdicate.

They took her to a holding cell just outside of London and here you’ll find me now. The walls hug us quite tight, the floorboards creak and it’s impossible to spend a day without encountering a rat but I’m only glad a kindly guard took pity on me, enough to let me see her. 

So I’ve spent my days and so she’s spent hers. No one else comes, no one but me and the guards. At sunrise, I’m let in and, at sundown, I’m kicked out. I’ve never left on my own accord, only for the market about noon, to bring her back something to eat, or a new frock as the old one has grown stained and ragged.

She’s grown thin about the face, a terrible sight. I’ve tried to tempt her with pastries, scones still hot from the oven, and tea hot enough to burn my fingertips as it spills, thick with sugar. She would nibble at most but, in the end, she always turned them down and told me to eat instead. 

Just weeks ago, not a day passed that I could not make her smile. Now, she looks at me and her eyes are wells of melancholy, she looks at me and shivers.

We’ve spent our days here, waiting. Awaiting news for what is to come of her or rather, when. We always knew she was to die and I’d close my eyes in terror at the thought to keep from weeping. I wouldn’t, not in her presence, though that is how I passed my long, lonesome nights. 

And after precisely a day short of a month of agonizing waiting, the news came. Yesterday, a man from the court came with a scroll. He read her death sentence aloud to her. She was to be beheaded the following day at sunrise.

“Signed, Alexander Luthor.”

I nearly leapt off the floor, like a dog, to bite him. Lena held me down by the arm. She took the news with her head held high, her eyes clear as day, not a tear in sight, not a quiver in her motions. 

“You may go,” she said to him. He took a bow and left. For the first time, I wept in front of her, into the sleeve of her dress. The sobs ravaged my body and she held me tight, unwavering, but didn’t say a word. We passed the night that way, I believe. For once, the guards let me stay. 

For hours, we dared not slumber but when her limbs grew heavy around me, I knew she must’ve succumbed to exhaustion. I spent at least another hour gazing at what I could make out of her features in the dark, though I’d long memorized them. Then, terrible sleep must’ve taken me as well.

Waking up today felt like waking up to the end of the world.

We were awoken by the guards long before sundown. She was given a chemise of pure white to replace her frock and told if she shouldn’t change into it herself, they’d come and strip her. The thought was a terrible one.

I unlace her frock as I have so many times before. As I do it, I speak of Lex with anger but she quiets me, as she always does. She says terrible things to comfort me, I believe, to spare me the horror of the truth. 

“You think my brother cruel but he is kind to me,” she says, “the executioner, I hear, is being brought all the way from France. In his swiftness, he makes it painless, so they say. Oh, if it wasn’t for him, I’d be burnt at the stake.”

She cannot possibly believe such things.

“If it wasn’t for him, you’d be alive for sunset.”

“Dear girl… Oh, how I wish it weren’t winter.”

She sighs and shivers. I put my coat upon her. She turns to face me. For the first time, I see tears stinging her eyes. I see her struggle to keep them from falling. 

“Oh, Cara. You’ve been the dearest friend to me. My dearest, dearest… friend,” she takes my hands in hers, “no one’s ever meant quite as much to me as you have. I believe, oh, I believe you should know that.”

She touches her lips to mine, then, and we kiss. Not at all the way ladies do. No, she doesn’t kiss me the way a queen kisses her subject or a mother her child but the way sweethearts kiss under the altar– what an altar this is! My eyes fall shut and I’m lost in it.

Time, the cruellest of all masters, runs out and she is taken to a carriage. I trail behind her like a stray cat she refuses to go anywhere without. It’s unlike all the wonderful carriages I’ve ridden in by her side, with their handsome gold-plated ornaments and soft seats of satin. It’s a carriage fit for livestock at the very best, drawn by two horses, both as dark as the night sky.

The coachman lifts his whip and we are off. I look to Lena. Her hair falls in messy dark tresses. Her eyes have faded. Her nailbeds are turning blue against her pale skin. I know not what to do but to take her hand in mine. She turns to me and smiles at the gesture, the faintest, faintest smile I’ve seen in my life. She brings our hands to her mouth and plants a soft kiss on my knuckles that are turning red from the cold, and holds my hand flush against her cheek. 

With the same terrible smile, she says, “Like so many great figures in history, I’ve proved terrible at not being put to death.”

Her last attempt at a joke, I should attempt to laugh. I cannot. I only gaze into her eyes, her faded dull green eyes once so piercing, and have no words I could command my lips to speak. She turns away from me and allows our hands to fall.

“You shall take my coat but not until the very last moment. I mustn’t grow cold and shiver.”

There’s a determination as old as herself in her voice. If she is to die, she is to die with dignity, such was always the case with my Queen. Her lip trembles and she turns to me again, forgetting all the world passing us by. Before she speaks, I see consideration in her eyes, a careful calculation I’ve seen many times before. The look that has decided the fate of entire nations is now deciding mine.

“You must know, I will love you until all the world’s books are written and read, until the last of man has drawn his last breath. I will love you until the Sun dies, and if you love someone else, and if you don’t love at all,” she pauses, her eyes dart around her surroundings, her eyelashes fluttering like hummingbirds. 

When she finds my eyes again, she says, “I must leave you just now and may be some time,” and brushes a strand of hair from my cheek, “But I will love you from the gates of heaven and, if Peter so says, I will love you from the gates of hell or, or the fires of purgatory,” she smiles, “I would love you from the darkness of Sheol, from the abyss of Tartarus, from the green valleys of the Elysian Fields or from the Asphodel Fields, where disembodied and senseless spirits of the dead weep and wail, I would only wander with love.”

She pauses and we gaze into each other’s eyes, akin to Medusa gazing into a mirror.

“But you mustn’t, you mustn’t align yourself with me, not from this day forward, do you understand? The people, they are saying things, they will speak such vile things of you.”

“Let them!” I cry.

She smiles, looks down and shakes her head.

“No. You should not suffer for my–”

“For your love?”

“For my choices, dear. For my choices.” 

Her words stun me to silence. Her eyes find mine once again. I look away and take a deep breath. The wheels of the carriage climbing cobblestone rattle me to my core and give my voice a tremble.

“I wish it was me. In your stead.”

To my surprise, she laughs. It’s brief but light as the call of a nightingale.

“How could you wish such a thing upon me? What a curse to live without you,” 

“But to live, at least!” I interrupt. She shakes her head and pauses in thought.

“What is death but a door? So long as you remember me, I will live on,” she says.

“And when I no longer can?” I ask, dreading the thought. Her voice has grown so very soft.

“Then I want you to imagine me there, standing in the doorway. Waiting.”

“All this time,” I muse.

“All this time,” she nods with a soft smile, “onwards to our next adventure. Whatever that may be.”

I think, then, of heaven and hell, of distant times and worlds entirely unlike our own. Of a raging ocean comprised entirely of droplets.

“But if we go through the door and lose each other,” I begin to say.

“I will find you, time and time again,” she assures me.

“What if you don’t remember me?”

“Impossible.” The way she says it makes the thought seem a ridiculous one. _Impossible._

I have a thousand more things to say and none of the words to say them and, in the bat of an eyelash, no time, either. The carriage pulls to a halt and we are ordered off of it. I trail Lena to the scaffold where a man with a sword that glimmers in the rising winter sun is already waiting. He greets her in French. I take her coat. She plants a soft kiss just to the left of my lips, gives my hand a final squeeze and I am sent to stand among the observers, all nobles in their own right.

A man with a bellowing voice reads out her verdict once again. I bow my head, the sound is unbearable. The church bells ring. Lena kneels down. She places her head on a wooden block. There isn’t a single nick in its surface. She looks to me, our eyes meeting, and says,

_“La séparation est un si doux chagrin.”_

A flash of silver and red. Then, white.

As far as winters go, it’s been a particularly warm one. Suitably, this morning is the coldest the year has seen. As the sword swung down, something white fell from the skies, twirling, fluttering in the air, graceful as a ballerina.

It lands in dark curls scattered on the ground. First snow. 

So alone it seems, at first, and then I feel it on my shoulder, and my cheek. A burning, crisp cold, melting on skin left hot from tears. I crane my head towards the sky, as if intent on speaking to God himself, and then I see it. The last of the morning sun peeking out through the clouds, and a blizzard of snow coming down upon us.

“This shall be the day England froze over,” I mutter to myself, the most bittersweet sound of all that of my own voice.

The Queen has died. Now, all that she reigned over must wither.

**Author's Note:**

> look, i've realized that begging for comments, no matter how pathetic or silly, really doesn't work so i suppose it is up to you. if you did enjoy this, i would urge you to leave some feedback, it is what keeps writers writing, silly as that may seem, and it does mean more than you think, but of course it remains up to you to decide.
> 
> also, if someone can teach me how to create work skins, this would work a lot better with a different font, alas, i am dumb of ass when it comes to any kind of code.


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